Bits & Pieces
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the "themightyspleen" journal:[<< Previous 20 entries]
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06:08 am
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...
Got to page 72.
No outlines. No ideas.
Blah.
Current Mood:  cranky
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10:52 am
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Doh!
Progress report for March: Can I buy a vowel?
Got to page 63. Then a little burn out. A skid mark or two. (<--from a different problem entirely.)
Wrote (or mostly) 3 very bad adventure ideas.
Decided to give myself March off.
SO...
For April:
I will get to page 80, hopefully before the end of April, and then I will update my page-goal.
Write at least an outline of a decent adventure or have 5 rough ideas and will go from there.
Wheee...
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12:15 pm
[Link] | Just broke page 50.
Goal for 4/1/08...reach page 90.
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07:07 pm
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Booyah!
OK. I actually wrote "booyah."
Hmm...
Anyway, finished page 20 today. Goal met. Wheee...
So by 3/1/08, I will have another 30 pages done.
Current Mood:  cheerful
Current Music: Juno Soundtrack
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06:01 pm
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Provolone!
All you perspective literary agents PREPARE YOURSELVES BECAUSE I HAVE JUST FINISHED...
Chapter 1. (10 pages.) Well...a rough draft of Chapter 1.
Hey! Come back! Guys!
-ahem-
Things aren't happening quite like I had expected in the story--a good thing--so my next goal is to revise the outline, mostly Chapter 2. On the plus side, there are huge differents from this Ch 1 from the prior version, all of which, I think are good.
Still rough, but it's done for now.
So...onward with the outline.
Current Mood:  busy
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05:44 pm
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12/31/07...
And here's the pre-1/1/08 tally:
1) 1 mostly complete outline.
2) All notes reviewed.
3) Butt libearlly scatched.
4) All feedback reviewed.
5) 2 1/2 pages written.
Next goal:
1) By 2/1/08, have 20 single-spaced pages written.
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08:57 pm
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Progress Report...
Progress?
I'm supposed to be making progress?
Ut!
OK.
Seriously, though, I have made progress.
1) I've decided on the rewrite.
2) I've reread said novel and actually enjoyed some parts. Other parts made me cringe.
3) No problem! It can be fixed.
4) I've started the outline and character sketches/maps.
Amended agenda for 1/1/08.
1) Have a completed outline.
2) Review all notes from screenwriting class.
3) Scratch butt.
4) Reread/review all comments/feedback on novel.
For now, more butt scratching...
Current Mood:  content
Current Music: Scratch, scratch, scratch
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08:02 am
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2 1/2 years...
I promise myself to write, by Jan 1, 2008: a hopefully complete (but mostly-complete will count) outline and 10 pages, single space, of either a new novel or a rework of my prior novel.
I also promise myself to stop plotting the untimely demise of my lazy coworkers (using, but not limited to: a half-eaten lump of SPAM, Richard Simmons, and the latest lead-filled toy from China).
OK, realistically...just the writing. The plotting, well, I gotta have at least one fix...
Current Mood:  creative
Current Music: My roommate's melodic snores.
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02:41 pm
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Plop, plop, fizz, fizz...
The other week I read an article that started like this: “Richard Thorne grins as he waves his hand under a toilet dispenser in a women’s restroom.”
I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s ridiculous enough on its own. Now consider what followed immediately after that intro: “The machine spits five sheets of tissue into his grasp.”
Of course, given the title of the article, this is not surprising: “George W. Bush Weds Lesbian Chimpanzee in Private Ceremony.” (And in italics, “Elvis Presides Over Ceremony with Bat Boy as Best Man!”)
OK. So the real title was “Automatic Toilet Tissue Dispenser Ready.”
I need to write to my local congressman about this—or Paris Hilton—because I have a plethora of issues with automatic toilet tissue dispensing machines, the first of which being “Why was Richard Thorne in the women’s restroom?”
Not so long ago, bored scientists and technology bequeathed upon us automatic flushing toilets. To quickly rehash my previous rants about this, allow me to sum it up.
- The toilet flushes right when you put down the seat cover, sucking it into the abyss like a black hole, and as a result, you’re afforded no toilet-seat-to-bare-butt protection other than the prolific hair that carpets your bottom.
- The toilet flushes before you’re finished. And while the toilet water that splashes your nether regions is cool…just think for a minute as to what was gallivanting in the water mere seconds before.
- The automatic flushing toilet doesn’t automatic-toilet-flushy.
But according to Clark Professional, the think tank that spent (I am not making this up) one year coming up with the technology, states that toilet paper is a $1 billion-dollar-a-year business. But that $1 billion is not about profit, but cheapness.
Clark Professional states that the average person uses a monstrous 20 sheets of paper to wipe—and this isn’t even accounting for the wipers who follow the wash-rinse-repeat philosophy. Clark Professional has determined that the ideal amount is 5 sheets. So what this means is that, while out-and-about, people turn into booty-wiping freaks.
Here’s Clark Professional’s solution to the problem. Two motion sensors dish out a length of toilet paper predetermined by the establishment whose facilities you are patronizing. I bet the temptation to abuse this will be something fierce.
In the event the impossible happens, which is to say that it will happen 110% of the time, there is a “security” mechanism that allows patrons to activate manual feed. There’s also an optional (again, at the discretion of the establishment) “rescue roll” on the side of the dispenser—think of it as a spare tire or an emergency parachute. I bet the temptation to abuse this will be something fierce.
The automatic dispenser is priced at a reasonable $30 for the plastic variation and $55 for stainless steel. Soon, I imagine, Clark Professional will offer a bullet proof, crowbar proof, plastic-explosive proof, comes with its own protective moat and anti-aircraft batteries that costs $3.14 billion each that you might as well forget the whole thing and just spring the extra cash to buy normal toilet paper or do what most intelligent (i.e. “cheap”) establishments do and provide really, really nasty toilet paper—the kind that disintegrates skin on contact—that no one other than a poor desperate soul would use, so that people bring their own toilet paper and all that we’re left with is a technological restroom with automatic flushing toilets that don’t flush, automatic faucets that don’t automatically faucet, automatic hand dryers that don’t dry and only move the water from one end of my wet hand to the other, when all we need is a hole in the ground with plenty of soft, lusciously silky toilet paper. And, perhaps, a fuzzy seat cover. Those are nice.
The moral of the story: technology can’t overcome people’s basic need to poop and be pampered before, during, and after doing it.
Note: No Presidents or Lesbian Chimpanzees were hurt in the writing of this inane post. Elvis and Bat Boy, however, were traumatize because, hey, they’re Elvis and the Bat Boy, and Richard Thorne continues to wave his hand beneath the automatic dispenser in the women’s bathroom while saying, “Work, damn you! Work!”
Current Location: Rolling around in a pile of toilet paper.
Current Mood:  bouncy
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09:39 pm
[Link] | It never fails.
First comes the mirth: the smirk, quickly followed by a chuckle that landslides into a full blown guffaw. Then the reality: the eyebrow lifted in question—as if to say, “No, really…You!?! Not, you!” and the smirk lessens into a line that no longer resembles a smile, but a look of pity.
Yes, I am a wrestling fan.
Forget about the “Why’s” and “How could you’s” and the, “Did you take too many blows to the head trying to ‘sell’ a move while reenacting Wrestlemania III?”
Though, truly, the answer is “Yes.”
(And, a little softer, “Yes, I played both parts: I was Hulk Hogan body slamming Andre the Giant and I was Andre the Giant being body slammed by Hulk Hogan.)
It actually hurts being body slammed onto a couch. And onto the carpet. And onto anything other than, say, a feather mattress. And it wasn’t inasmuch “selling,” as I was “falling and writhing in pain, having suffered severe spinal trauma from being body slammed by a testosterone-filled prepubescent teen with all the wrestling training of a potator.”
Really, I am a wrestling fan. (Even after the spinal trauma.)
But let’s move beyond the picture-perfect vision of a prepubescent boy watching wrestling on TV, admiring the theatrics, the muscles, the screaming fans, the dream of being a modern day gladiator complete with Hollywood sets and—let’s face it—scantily clad women with gravity-defying builds in logic-defying and fashion-impaired costumes.
Let’s move beyond the shirt-ripping, the pile-driving, the snake-biting, the Oooohhh-yeahhhing (and all the other spit filled, incoherent segments) and look at why, at 32, almost 20 years after I sat through my first Saturday Night Main Event then diligently went about to say my prayers, take my vitamins, and do all that a proper Hulkster should do, that I am still a wrestling fan…
It’s about the people.
I would say with confidence, like one who had just suffered a career-ending neck injury while being tombstone-piledriven from a 30 foot drop onto concrete, that one of the greatest things that happened in wrestling was the breaking down of the reality veil in the 1990s when it was admitted that, yes, wrestling is not real. (It was also great when Ric Flair came out of retirement. Again. And again. And again.) Vince McMahon went further to rename wrestling as not “wrestling” but as “sports entertainment.”
And I loved it! I bought the DVDs, I watched the shows, I was even glued to the TV during MTV/WWE’s first reality show, “Tough Enough.” I loved the chance to see behind the scenes, to catch the wrestling superstar being, well, being just like you and me: normal people. I loved hearing Hulk Hog—
—ahem… Terry Bollea and Bret “the Hitman” Hart…err…Bret Hart, talk about their first wrestling match, who broke them into the biz, how close they came to quitting, what it meant to be a part of the industry when so much ground was being broke day after day.
And then it wasn’t about dreaming of being a modern day gladiator, it was about being the normal Joe who became the modern day gladiator; it was about real people obtaining real dreams.
And to hear the story of these real people obtaining their wrestling dreams, setting examples for others who were taking their first step in wrestling entertainment or even other people who will never set foot in the squared circle, but who took something personal away (a moment of inspiration, a fond childhood memory of breaking VHS tapes from watching and rewatching wrestling matches) and applied it to their own lives in their own way…
Like Chris Benoit, the “Canadian Crippler,” the “Rabid Wolverine,” who proved you didn’t have to be 6’+, 330lbs+ to be a champion, who showed through example that putting forth 120% every night wasn’t a matter of pick-and-chose: whether there were 15 people in the audience or 30,000…you gave it your all.
And now, as I sit here reading a headline about Chris Benoit, his wife and his seven year-old son, all dead with police treating it as a double-murder-suicide, I find that I don’t want the reality. This is Chris Benoit. I want the sports entertainment persona; I want the real person I saw on the DVD extended scenes; I want a happy ending for a wrestler, a person, who I knew was good enough to be “good enough.”
What do we have? A 40 year old man, dead. His wife. Dead. Their son, dead. You have a TV program hastily putting together a tribute show. You have wrestling fans checking the Internet for the latest news only to stop and turn of the computer because…
…in the end, Chris Benoit was more than good enough for me, and for countless other people, other wrestling fans.
It isn’t about the hours I watched Chris Benoit wrestle on TV. It is about what he left me. I’m not going to talk about it now because this is about Chris Benoit. The wrestler. The sports entertainer. The person. And remembering what he will always be...
...the silence of anticipation
...the explosion of thousands of lights, blinding and illuminating
...the break of music, thunderous music, proud and inviiting
...the applause, the cheers and the roars
...and then, the show.
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02:58 am
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V = RHB
Science is a wonder. Not just the wonky technical bits like species names that end with -ia, -ate, -ae, or formulas created out of letters and numbers and little squiggly lines that look like something a word processor vomited after a night of heavy drinking, or how combining various chemical elements will create new—and occasionally explosive—elements, but also the scientific process itself—hypothesis, testing, theory, etc.—that leads to the birth of wondrous new discoveries.
With this in mind, I bring you to hamsters.
Jet lagged hamsters.
On Viagra.
It would be a relief to chalk this up to my imagination. But it’s true. Frighteningly true. And it not only proves the miracles and scary wonders birthed from the loins of science, but also that scientists have a sense of humor.
And, perhaps, too much free time.
Scientist A: “Animalia, chordate, mammalian, rodentia, myomorpha, muroidea, cricetidae.”
Scientist B: “Linear sequences, space and numbers; quantifying. Ergo issue (1.b.) desynchronosis, dysrthmia, dyscrony, i.e. circadian rhythm.”
Scientist A: “Phenomena?”
Scientist B: “Affirmative. Observable phenomenon. Empirical evidence needed. Test subjects and catalyst…”
Scientist A: “(a)2 – = ?”
For the common laymen, this verbose monstrosity translates to:
Scientist A: “Dude. Let’s give some hamsters Viagra and see what happens.”
Scientist B: “Righteous!”
The following is an accurate account (except for the portions that I’ve liberally changed and/or outright made up) of an experiment that actually took place at the Universidad Nacional de Quilmes in Bueons Aires.
Scientists subjected a group of hamsters to simulated jet lag. This was accomplished by turning the lights on and off. (One scientist had suggested mailing the hamsters via Fed Ex from one time zone to another, but this idea was logically shot down because hamsters poop a lot and that would cost extra postage.) The scheduled manipulations of light and dark influenced the hamsters’ circadian rhythms in a similar manner as a frequent flyer experiences crossing time zones.
Then the hamsters were given Viagra. (It is important to note that all of the hamsters tested were male hamsters because it would be wrong to not take advantage of the diligence Pfizer, the drug manufacturer of Viagra, displayed by adding hamsters to the warning discloser on the drug label because, let’s face it, Viagra was created by scientists and, more importantly, it just wouldn’t be funny to give Viagra to female hamsters.)
The dosage of Viagra was lowered after a certain side effect manifested…
Scientist A: “ Sildenafil-induced penile erections.”
Scientist B: “”
Translation:
Scientist A: “Haha. That soldier is saluting you.”
Scientist B: “This is why we don’t have girlfriends.”
Once the correct dosage was determined (and the scientists stopped laughing), the hamsters were given Viagra at night, then the scientists turned on the lights to simulate day light six hours early to simulate a red-eye east bound flight. To test the effects of jet lag on the hamsters, which commonly causes insomnia, inability to concentrate, and sleepiness, the scientists noted the time at which the hamsters ran on the exercise wheel. The Viagra hamsters adjusted to the early-hours and ran the wheel, while the control, non-Viagra hamsters did not adjust and were, to the effect, like zombie-hamsters.
They were also bitter because they didn’t have raging boners.
In conclusion, the scientists determined that Viagra contains an enzyme that blocks chemicals that control the body’s internal clock and may be useful to people to help cope with jet lag or shift work. They also determined that with enough grants and free time, they could successfully come up with a way to mix hamsters and Viagra and not end up in jail or, at the very least, be mentioned in the same sentence as Richard Gere.
But the real conclusion can be summed up with:
Male Hamster: “Squeak!”
Female Hamster: “Squeak!”
Translation:
Male Hamster: “Dude, if you had this much wood to burn, would give a shit about sleep?”
Female Hamster: “Thanks a lot, assholes.”
Current Mood: amused
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08:41 pm
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He's a radioactive bug...
SO...after, what, I dunno, 10 months of silence, I'm sure you're all wondering:
Why just leave it to 10 months? Why not make it a year?
Haha.
Shaddup, you! AND WITNESS MY TRIUMPHANT RETURN!
Since everyone's hammering Spiderman 3...band wagon, jumping on...
-ahem-
***WARNING***SPIDERMAN 3 SPOILERS TO SOON FOLLOW***ALONG WITH RAMPANT MISUSE OF***THESE LITTLE***STAR***THINGIES***
***ahem***
Allow me to prevent you from experiencing the pain of watching (and, likely, paying to see Spiderman 3) by giving you this well-thought-out summary: (Should I mention that I'm drunk?)
Spiderman: "Damn, people love me."
Mary Jane: "I love you! But why don't people love me?"
Spiderman: "Two words for you: Less singing, more cleavage."
Mary Jane: "That's four words."
Spiderman: "Damn, people love me."
Stan Lee: "WITNESS MY BLATANT CAMEO! WHEEEE!!! THIS FILMS MAY SUCK, BUT I'M LAUGHING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK. SPIDERMAN, SPIDERMAN...NO ONE CAN CASH A CHECK LIKE I CAN..."
Peter Parker: "BOY, do I love that Mary Jane."
Aunt May: "I give away blatant plot lines because I am old and wrinkly. Peter, if you want to marry Mary Jane, you must be a man."
Peter Parker: "Marry Mary? Marrying Mary Jane would make me merry. I want to marry Mary Jane."
Aunt May: "I like Depends under garments."
Peter Parker: "I will make a deep-thought expression, now."
Sandman: "I'm not a bad guy. I just have poor taste in fashion. But I love my daughter, therefore I have character development, AND, I wear tight shirts."
Sandman's character-revealing wife: "No, really, the Freddy Kreugar look is SO in."
Timothy Dayle (ala: Joe): "Lowell!"
Sandman: "There's no place like Nantucket, there's no place like Nantuckett, there's no place like Natucket..."
Venom-booger-like-thingy: "Hisss, growl...drool..." (<---translates to: "Hisss, growl...drool..."
Spiderman: [Watch as I look dark and evil and contemplatey-like, ala George-Lucas-Darth-Vader. i.e. IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW SPIDEY WAS BEING NAUGHTY NOW, BOYYY...YOU JUST WAIT AND SEE!!!"]
****Some other stuff happened in the movie right about here, but I'm not sure what. I admit to dillegently picking my nose right about now...****
***More stuff happened***
***This? THIS IS MY BOOMSTICK!***
***More of Mary Jane singing***
***Snikt! Yur singing is hurtin' my ears, Bub***
***Wait...when did Spiderman star in the Night at the Roxubry Revival?***
Geeze, is this lame parody ever going to end? Jump to the ending...
Sandman: "Spiderman is preventing me from helping my daughter. So I must kill him. But I'm really not a bad guy. Now witness my special effects action! Whoosh!"
Venom: "Hisss, growl....drool...." (<---"I'm going to kill my agent.")
Spiderman: "Help me, Harry."
Harry: "Dude. You nuked my face."
Spiderman: "My bad."
Harry: "Now that I am symbollically scarred, I will ponder and reflect--notice how I am half-good and half-bad and can see this reflection in the mirror. Eat your heart out, Two-Face."
Butler: "Harry, you know I all that bad wiggity-whack you thought Spidey did on your dad?"
Harry: "SPIDERMAN MUST DIE, YO!"
Butler: "I knew it was wrong, but let you think it because I couldn't get the part of Alfred so I'm bitter."
Harry: "I LUVS YOU, SPIDEY!"
Spiderman: "Harry, you're here. YOU COULD HAVE SHOWN UP SOONER."
Harry: "Sorry, my reflection left me many deep thoughts..."
Spiderman: "..."
Harry: "..."
Spiderman: "..."
Harry: "But BOY, did I think of some good one-liners."
Spiderman: "..."
Harry: "..."
Venom: "Look at me, I'm evil."
Spiderman: "Did Harry tell you that one-liner?"
Sandman: "I didn't want this."
Spiderman: "You killed my uncle."
Sandman: "My bad."
Spiderman: "I LUVS YOU, SANDMAN!"
(Meanwhile, best-friend-turned-mortal-enemy-turned-amnesiac-best-friend-turned-mortal-enemy-pretending-to-be-best-friend-turned-thoughtful-anti-hero-best-friend lies dying while Sandman whisps away in a cloud of sand WHICH HE COULD HAVE DONE IN THE FIRST PLACE.)
Spiderman: "Harry, don't die!"
Harry: "No, let me die."
Spiderman: "Does this mean I can have my basketball back?"
Mary Jane: "BOY, my cleavage looks great!"
Spiderman: "Hisss, growl....drool...." (<---translates to: "You can't sing, but BOY, does your cleavage look great!"
The End.
***
The ending we REALLY wanted to see...
The Macho Man, err, umm, Bonesaw flies off the top rope with his patented flying-elbow maneurver...
Bonesaw: "I'm gonna beatchyu all, ohh yeahhhh, digit!!"
And pins Spiderman, Venom, and Sandman for the ONE, TWO, THREE--
--AND WE HAVE A NEW, WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!!!
***ahem***
Sorry. I blame that one the brutal brain damage I suffered while watching Spiderman 3. That movie was so bad, it made the preview for the Silver Surfer look good.
Ohh...don't get me started...
Current Location: Web-slinging in blatant disregard...
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08:07 am
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Hey, who...?
OK.
Since I’ve been totally lazy and slacking about writing in this journal, I’ve decided (and quite magnanimously, I might add) to put an end to one of the eternal questions of our time.
But before I continue, please, for the safety of yourself and those around you, please cease drinking whatever beverage you are consuming at this moment to prevent rocket-spewage of said drink through your nose upon hearing the statement that will end the debate of, “Are men superior to women?”
Prepare yourself drink-spewing mortals!
(This would be much more dramatic if I had a drum roll right now. So, instead, I shall brutally overuse ellipses.)
…
…
…
Ahem.
The answer is: Yes.
I mean, c’mon, folks. Men are superior to women. There. I said it. Simple as that. Black and white. Yin and Yang. Adam and Eve. Paris Hilton and George W. Bush. RuPaul and, well, RuPaul.
And I’m not taking the easy way out by basing this statement on scientific facts and studies such as height and weight difference or even the average salary.
My extremely well-thought out, painstakingly researched argument is solely based upon this key fact: Men like farts.
If you take two men, any two men, be it a nose-picking seven year-old and a Fortune 500 executive, all it takes is one Whoopee Cushion, one command of “Pull my finger,” or best of all, the aftermaths of a rambunctious night of consuming beans and other fartable, combustible consumables. And there you have it—instant and eternally gratifying amusement and entertainment.
Take me for example, I’ve been sitting in a cloud of my own filth for the past five minutes and tears of laughter and joy have been rolling down my face. For the love of Ganesh, I can’t wait for technology to produce scratch ‘n sniff internet blogs.
Now women, on the other hand, are equipped with fart inhibitors.
Because everyone knows that women don’t fart. Why, they would never lower themselves to do something so primal, so debased as to…flatulate. And if, IF, in the rare event it does occur, it will not be an uproariously hilarious event. It will a quick and sudden event, sounding not unlike a mouse squeak or a demure “Tee-hee,” which is quickly followed by, “It smells like roses.”
Well. The last time I checked, roses didn’t smell like ass. (Kind of puts a whole new meaning behind the Zen advice of, “Smell the flowers.”)
But(t) to be fair, there are women who can, at the very least, mimic farts with the tried-and-true chicken wing flapping combo of cupped-hand-and-armpit, who can also, undoubtedly burp their full name (first, middle initial, and last) or at least a healthy portion of the alphabet. But they will never in a bazillion years, walk up to another woman, sportingly punch her in the arm and then say, “Pull my finger,” or upon trumpeting rosey incense into the air, immediately call up a girlfriend so they can rejoice in the joyous event or, at the very least, exchange high-fives.
So as you can see, it is the superior sex who can celebrate farts, who can turn indiscriminately floating biscuits in crowded places into a sporting competition, who can intellectualize and converse on the topic of tooting and pooting, supporting it with scientific facts and findings, who can make an event out of “Who done it?”, who can and do know that there is nothing more world-churning, life-quaking than a fart.
Current Location: Still sitting in a cloud of my own filth.
Current Mood:  nauseated
Current Music: Bum toots and poots.
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08:16 am
[Link] | It's odd being an early riser. (Are you an early or late riser? Morning or night owl?) I mean here I am. It's Saturday. Morning. Early Saturday morning. Well, it's already 8:00am as I write this. But I've been up since 5:30am.
Granted, it's partly out of necessity: I gotta get my laundry done before the mad rush. (Mad Rush begins at 7am when the old lady from down the hall pushes a shopping cart--yes, a shopping cart; complete with that one SPASTIC wheel and other three well behaved, comatose wheels--and the pot head from the corner apartments who unfailingly sports an illegal amount of butt cleavage, wearing a pair of pajamas that should be six feet under and drags a wicker basket that's more wicker than basket and will, undoubtedly, shove nickels into the quarter-only-machines because, hey, you never know, dude.
And I also get up to get my shopping done before the sun rises. At that hour, it's only me, the restockers, and all the Starbucks vampires that need to suck their fill.
I've tried sleeping in. Really. The farthest I can make it is 7am.
99% of the time, I wake up anywhere between 15-30 minutes before my alarm goes off. The only time I have to wake up via alarm is when I'm really, really sleepy, which means less than 2 hours of sleep or if I'm really, really sick, so it’s a good thing to be roused by the alarm, lest I drown in a puddle of my own NyQuil-induced drool.
It also doesn’t help that I’m a light sleeper. I can’t wake up and then go back to sleep. Because once I'm awake MY EYES ARE WIDE OPEN AND WILL NOT SHUT NO MATTER HOW LONG I LAY IN BED AND BLUDGEON MYSELF WITH PILLOWS IN ATTEMPT TO CLOBBER MYSELF INTO UNCONSCIOUSNESS BECAUSE I AM AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE CAN'T GO BACK TO SLEEP AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE.
Ahem.
So it’s only natural that my propensity for sleeping-light leads me to a nightly dilemma: the 2am urge to pee.
I have three choices. Well, four choices, I suppose, if I ever reach the point where I conclude it's acceptable to wet the bed. Or five: I start wearing diapers.
Choice #1) I try to go back to sleep and pray that my bladder holds until 5am when it’s time to wake up.
Choice #2) Get up and pee and hope I can fall back asleep OR REMAIN AWAKE FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT AND STARE AT THE CEILING STARE AT THE CEILING WHY ARE THERE FACES IN THE CEILING STARING BACK AT ME DON’T THEY HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO LIKE SLEEP YES SLEEP WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA WHY CAN’T I SLEEP IT’S BECAUSE THE FACES IN THE CEILING ARE STARING AT ME MOCKING ME BECAUSE I CAN’T SLEEP AND—
Choice #3) [This is what actually happens] I will debate with myself for several minutes—bringing up very valid and very stupid points of argument—inevitably arriving to the conclusion that had I simply gone up to pee and went back to bed and not engaged myself in the eternal should-I-get-up-and-pee-debate, it’s likely I would’ve been able to pee and fall back asleep, and BOY don’t I feel stupid for indulging in this debate instead of going to pee and…hey…do I feel something wet?
So as you can see, I can only imagine what it would be like to sleep in.
Excuse me a moment while I have a nervous breakdown.
Then I think I’ll take a nap.
Current Location: I'm completely naked and surrounded by Jello.
Current Mood:  awake
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04:13 pm
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I'd Like a Squid-Mac and a Large Order of Fries
When I was five my mom asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
“A killer whale,” I said, with the confidence and conviction that only a five year-old possesses. The how’s and why’s, can’s and cannot’s, and reality and impossibility of a human child growing up into a killer whale didn’t dawn on me because, well, it just didn’t dawn on me. I was going to be a killer whale.
Suffice to say that, twenty-six years later, I’m not a killer whale. And oddly enough, or perhaps not oddly at all and quite naturally, I’m not OK with that.
This isn’t to say that I yearn to have flukes and fins, a blow hole, and communicate in such a way that is not unlike emitting a prolonged cheeker-squeaker fart—although, it’s arguable that I already do communicate with my farts, though my fart-grammar is something less than desirable. What it means is that, though I have a job with the state—a job that is secure, that provides good retirement and medical benefits, and coworkers who make the day go by easier—I can’t help but wonder about my “career job” versus my “dream job,” i.e. Why am I a state employee and not a killer whale?
To me a “career job” is any one or combination of the following: something to pay the bills; temporary; a stepping-stone; force of habit; a means to an end. While some of those descriptions may seem negative, they are not necessarily so. Specifically, I would epitomize a career job as “necessity.” And should the necessity be taken away, like if I won the lottery, I would quit my job the second I finished pooping my pants. (What? It’s not that weird of a reaction. First you’d say it, then you’d do it. Kind of like what happens with car accidents.)
Additionally, consider the following:
1) The average college student changes majors four times and less than 10% of college graduates work in the field related to their major.
2) How many of you know someone who got a job because they knew a friend of a friend of the neighbor of that guy who went to college with the girl who’s dating a hair stylist who’s the son of the mom whose daughter-in-law is married to the guy in charge of human resources?
In other words, happenstance plays a large part in the guidance of career necessity. On the other hand, a dream job is something that’s specifically sought.
And to me, a dream job is precisely that, “a dream job.” It’s a job that you love so much that you’d work it even it if wasn’t necessary. And, perhaps, it may not even be a traditional job, but a situation, an action, a state of mind.
But even though I’ve defined what a career job is and what a dream job is and understand how necessity and happenstance has brought me to where I am in my career and life, I’m still not OK with it.
Here’s the reason. The definitions of “career job” and “dream job” are not constant. They’re tricky buggers that change, often without warning and the benefit of subtitles and/or instructions. And not only that, but the definitions are different for each person.
- During my freshman and sophomore year in high school, it was my ambition, my dream job to be a psychologist; however, by the time graduation had rolled around, I was utterly disgusted with school and, not wanting to waste my parents’ money by flunking out of college, the desire to be independent (financially support myself and live on my own) lead me to the practical career choice of enlisting in the military, which would give me a steady job, a marketable skill, and a place to live.
- During boot camp and technical school, my dream changed from psychology to rapidly establishing myself as a sergeant (possibly promoting to officer training), but the reality of the back-stabbing politics within the military quickly dissolved those dreams. The necessity of my enlistment commitment forced me to bide my time and delay pursuit of my dreams until I was discharged from the military. Four years later, this led me to college.
Suffice to say my definitions changed numerous times since then. Sometimes it was something tangible, like the need for money to buy food and pay for rent and save for college, sometimes it was my perception of how others defined my “career” and “dream job”: my sister was the first PhD in our family (and extended family), what if my parents think I should get a higher degree, too; society equates success with a large salary, a big house, and the constant drive to promote, which goes hand-in-hand with a job being the defining essence of who a person is.
So where does this leave me?
In spite of my confusion about “career jobs” and “dream jobs” I know that I’m happy with my job and that it’s perfectly OK for me to not be career-driven and that, while I do not currently have a “dream job” in mind, when the time comes, instinctually, I will pursue it with all my energy.
And more importantly, I have the sneaking suspicion that killer whales don’t chew their flukes worrying about whether they know the true definition to career jobs and dream jobs and pursuing it to the fullest; killer whales live their lives as their nature dictates, knowing when to let the current take them, knowing when to fight the tides and waves, and knowing when to stand back, watch and observe and learn from the constant ebb and flow encompassing them.
This all adds up to me (finally) realizing that I turned out to be one hell of a killer whale.
(Except the whole eating-raw-fish-and-squid part. Gross. I mean, c’mon, would it be so hard to beach yourself and flop over to a McDonalds to get a Big Mac?)
Current Mood:  predatory
Current Music: INXS - New Sensation
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07:10 pm
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A Downpayment
Dear Blog:
I'm totally slacking in writing "Cadence." So after doing my best to avoid actually working on it (which involved me washing the dishes, vacuuming my apartment, organizing my sock drawer--just kidding...my socks were already organized, impeccably, I might add--and long moments of starting at a blank screen, pausing only to write "The" or maybe "If," then erasing it, ending up with a blank screen again.
But I did start.
Something.
A tiny bit.
ALMOST a paragraph's worth.
Almost.
And here it is. A beginning. A downpayment that's likely to be changed, edited, deleted, cursed, worshiped, and rubbed all over my naked, naked feet. Ahem.
Murphy heard that the best way to learn something about a person was to look at how they died. In death, people are honest--stripped down past skin and bones to the raw and emotional, to their private bits and pieces that, while alive, they’d never let a soul see.
Current Mood:  crazy
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07:54 am
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¿Pass or Fail?
Do me a favor: judge me.
Measure my worth. Condemn my faults. Praise my qualities. Like me, love me, hate me for every hunky dory bit that is known as me.
C’mon. Really. Judge me.
What? You’re not judgmental, you say? Let me guess, you’re flexible and open-minded. You wholeheartedly follow a credo of “try-anything-once.”
Okay. Fair enough.
But what if I told you that you’re already judging me?
Society embraces political correctness and shuns anything that falls (whether real or perceived) under the following categories: racism, prejudice, hate-crime, bigotry, stereotype (It’s funny how often people forget that stereotypes are based on truth. How else do you get a stereotype other than by having repeatable, identifiable common denominators? But I digress…), elitist and all the wonderful adjectives that I’m too lazy to add.
(Raise your hand if you just added, “I bet he’s lazy,” to your judgments.)
And these categories cover every spectrum of every-day-life from politics to religion to sports to you-name-it. But there’s one common denominator to all of them. They’re all judgments.
To illustrate my point, I’ll use an issue that’s a hot topic. No, not the Middle East. Not Korea, either. Not even John Landis or, gag me, Paris Hilton. I’m, of course, talking about SPAM.
SPAM, the wonderful whatever-it-is-foodstuff created by Hormel. You either love it or you hate it. There’s no in between. And I’ve found that the people who love it (are probably clinically insane) grew up eating it. And the people who hate it, well, have never tried it.
“SPAM’s gross. It’s a cube of pink lard covered in hair gel.”
Now all the politically correct, open-minded folk out there are saying, “How do you know you hate SPAM without trying it first?” i.e. How can you pass a judgment that SPAM is gross without actually knowing it’s gross?
“I just know. I don’t have to eat it to know, you know?”
Speaking as someone who’s labeled as a “picky eater,” who refuses to eat things that I consider to be “funky” (which generally is anything I can’t readily identify from the animal kingdom that’s just as likely to eat me as I it), I know.
And how do I know?
Well let me ask you this. Have you ever eaten shit? Do you need to try shit before feeling comfortable enough to pass a judgment of, “There’s no way in Hell I’ll eat shit. It’s SHIT!”
Suffice to say, most, if not all, people would agree: Hey, it’s OK to pass judgment on dining on excrement without first ordering the poop platter sampler with a side of diarrhea dip and taking a mouth-watering bite.
But let’s move on from SPAM and diarrhea dip to another judgment example—something familiar, yet altogether scarier and frequently more disgusting.
“If my man-to-be is a die-hard Republican, I’ll tell him to try harder. I’m a liberal Democrat.”
“I only date women who are Catholic.”
“I like partners who are career-oriented and driven.”
I bet you’re thinking: Yeah, and…? What’s wrong with those?
Okay. How about these:
“I want a woman with breast so huge that when she steps outside, people think there’s an eclipse.”
“I’m not picky about height, but I want a man who’s at least 6’, but no taller than 6’4’’. And white.”
“Fuck all you conforming yuppies. I want a punk. I want anarchy!”
Did those make you flinch? Why, because it’s not politically correct to measure someone’s worth by their cleavage, their vertical clearance, their conformity to anti-conformity?
In the world of dating, judgments about politics, religion, and profession are made—and universally accepted—all the time. It makes perfect sense for a Democrat to want to date a Democrat, a Catholic to date a Catholic, etc. Those are acceptable judgments, pass/fail criteria. But when it’s, “She’s flatter than a tit-less pancake,” or, “He makes an Oompa Loompa look like Shaq,” then there are outcries of “That’s not right! That’s not fair! That’s not politically correct!”
I disagree.
People make judgments for their own specific, personal reasons. Maybe it’s because of eye-candy. Maybe it’s because of financial necessity. Maybe it’s because of a firm commitment and solid belief in a specific political party. These judgments are deal-makers and deal-breakers. It’s only a matter of happenstance (i.e. societal opinion) that delineates which judgments are politically correct and which are obscene. (It was this societal opinion that once thought the world was flat, that the atom was the smallest thing in the universe, and that Paris Hilton is the hottest thing next to sliced bread; it’s still up in the air as to which is smarter.) The point is: EVERYONE makes judgments, whether they’re politically correct or not and will pass/fail things accordingly.
So measure my worth: Am I date-worthy? Condemn my faults: I’m irresponsible for not being registered to vote. Praise my qualities: You make one hell of a SPAM milkshake.
Like me, love me, hate me for every hunky dory bit that is known as me because it’s better to fail by judgment than be accepted by assumed politically correct indifference.
Judge me.
Because I’m judging you.
Current Mood:  contemplative
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10:23 pm
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Oh. The. Humanity.
Cheese...
Moldy and yellow,
Sometimes stinky and sometimes mellow.
Cheese...
Stringy or round,
Buy it by the piece or buy it by the pound.
Cheese...
Tart or sweet,
Comes from a cow or comes from someone's feet.
Cheese...
Squishy or chunky,
Like like a man or love it like a junky.
Current Mood: artistic
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05:52 pm
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1st Entry! Part Deux: The Blog Strikes Back
So here I am, posting the first blog entry.
Again.
Long story short: The blog posts down below are from my My Space account that I deleted after someone hacked it. Being the intrepid computer whiz that I am, I will take the time to explain how I figured out my account had been violated (and not in a good way) so that you, too, may apply this wisdom in the future should such an ill fate fall upon you.
Riiiiinnnnggggg. (<---sound of my phone ringing at 5:57am.)
"EEeerrraaaggggHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" (<---sound of me responding to said ringing phone at 5:57am.)
Riiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggggg. (<---sound of phone ringing. Again. At 6:05am.)
"FOR THE LOVE OF GANESH, WHAT DO YOU WANT?" (<---yeah, I actually answered the phone like that. Really.)
"Dude, your My Space sent me an invite with a link to a porn site." (<---said my friend who has no concept of time because he is a silly foo-foo, otherwise known as person-who-lives-in-West-Virginia-and-goes-by-right-coast-time-and-is-oblivious-to-the-fact-that-not-everyone-on-this-dirtball-planet-is-also-in-the-same-time-zone.)
"Did you just call me, 'dude?' Isn't it illegal to say that in Virginia? Wait, my who is doing what? (Insert a colorful string of choice words.)"
"Yup."
"Dammit, my account got hacked. Dammit, my other crap might be hacked! Dammit...hey, is the site any good?"
And there you have it. There's no more of an ineffable way to tell if your computer has been hacked then to have your friend call you at some Ganesh-forsaken time to inform you that you're inadvertently sending them porn.
And now I'm on Livejournal.
And such a momentous occasion has left me with many deep thoughts.
Current Mood:  geeky
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02:23 pm
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Happy New Year!
Dear blog:
Are you ready for some bloggy sap? Here y'go:
List of Things I Will Do To Improve My Life.
(Cue the sappy inspirational music--like the kind that's played during alcoholics anonymous and/or tampon commercials.)
No, really. I actually did make up a list of things that I will do to improve my life. It's pretty much like New Years resolutions, except it's the middle of August and making New Year resolutions in the middle of August would be silly. (And the fact that this blog is titled "Happy New Year!" has nothing to do with the fact that I originally started writing this blog that way. Haha. Move along. Nothing to see here.)
- I will exercise at least 5 days a week for a minimum of 20 minutes (and steadily increase as I become more of a perfect specime of hunk-a-tude). I mean, let's face it, my metabolism took another nose dive when I hit 31 and it's a cruel fact of life that junk food is "junk food" because it's packed full of empty calories. That and my jeans are starting to take liberties with my ass that are quite inappropriate. Good grief. Did I actually say that? Forgive my blasphemy, oh-great-McD's. I know not what I speak of.
- I will eat healthier. I suppose this goes hand in hand with exercising. It's like whips and chains: you can't complete the torture with one and not the other. Yin & Yang. Black and white. Big Mac and fries.
- I will write. Maybe in this blog. (Oh, the humanity.) Maybe a short story. Maybe anything. I will write. Something. Anything. It's kind of hard to be a "writer" if I don't writer. I suppose that means I'd make a good "non-writer" or whatever the opposite of a "writer" is. GAH! Writer...can't...think...of...proper...word...
"Marge. Thing. Dig. Eat." - Homer Simpson.
"You mean spoon?" - Marge Simpson.
- I will leave my apartment on the weekends instead of sitting and sulking because I'm not writing. Unless, of course, I'm actually sitting and sulking while trying to write. I suppose that's acceptable.
- I will quit smoking. OK. So I don't smoke in the first place. Gimme a break. At least this way, I accomplished one thing. Speaking of which...
- I will adhere to this sappy list. And if I "slip" or "screw up" or "blatantly walk past the gym to the McD's across the street and shovel a Big Mac down my trap" I will not give up. I will pick myself up (order a side of fries to go) and continue.
- I will speak up. Being a naturally quiet person, this is a particular pain in my ass. But as my friend said, "Silence speaks compliance."
- If my first instinct is to say, "No," or "I don't want to," or "I'll pass," or "Come any closer to me and I will bludgeon you with this toaster," I will withhold said toaster agression, think if saying "no" is really warrented, then say, "Yes"--and apply toaster-bludgeoning if necessary.
- I will work overtime. Friggen school loans. 'nuff said.
- I will not delete this sappy blog post no matter how much I want to.
- Excuse me while I spontaneously combust in all my glorious, sappy wonder.
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Charlie Brown
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